On what does a tangerine wait
Each morning below the winters sun as it awakes?
Do twisted dreams linger, of what it might mean to be a taste on the memory of a forgotten alien tongue?
Is its sacred role seen -- illuminated amongst the greens and unique chaotic chrominance bouncing ancient wisdom between the neighboring leaves?
The tangerine -- victim, pawn, and, ultimately, master ; its search for self in an infinitely growing pile of mixed up words truly complete. There is much to learn.
In orchards bathed in morning light, Where verdant leaves and branches sway, The tangerine, a gem so bright, Awaits the dawn of a golden day.
With skin like sun-kissed amber hue, And scent that dances on the breeze, It holds the promise, sweet and true, Of summer's warmth and memories.
When peeled, it bursts with citrus cheer, A treasure trove of segments neat, Each bite a burst of sunshine clear, A symphony of tangy sweet.
Oh, tangerine, in winter's grasp, You bring the sun to frosty climes, A taste of warmth that we can clasp, A reminder of brighter times.
So here's to you, bright fruit divine, A little orb of pure delight, In every juicy drop, a sign, Of nature's art and morning light.
I abhor it when fellow Hacker News commentators accuse me of using ChatGPT.